Respiro Rubato
by Swamy
Summary: For a short moment, when she takes that breath, air seems to hurt her lungs.


For a short moment, when she takes that breath, air seems to hurt her lungs. She comes back with a pained gasp and a blanket of stars upon her.

It is fuzzy, what happened, and she wants to try and put the pieces back together but there's a rhythmic, sinister _thud_ , a sound deaf and grotesque, that breaks her thoughts, and then Damon's growling, calling her attention. Bonnie pushes on her elbows to sit on the humid concrete, one palm open on the ground to help herself up. She doesn't pay attention to the bitter, rusty taste on her tongue because this is not the first time Damon has had to heal her, but she makes a mental note that she'll have to thank him, as soon as he's stopped slamming the lifeless body against the building wall.

"Damon," she calls him, trying to get his attention; but even in the dark, she can see the black ramifications on his face, the dark veins pushing up from under his marble-like skin, she can see his clear eyes now completely disappeared, every time he turns his body to use the poor creature like a carpet beater against the concrete, blotchy wall, stained with blood.

"Damon, stop."

He's growling like a wounded animal. The object of his ire is reduced to dusted bones inside a vessel of devastated flesh. She grimaces as she sees the empty holes where his eyes were, the grey matter landing like dust on Damon's shirt every time he smashes him against the wall.

She remembers vaguely, the _man_ walking past her as she was walking towards her best friend, the warm breath suddenly hitting her ear and his clammy hand on her hip as he whispered, "You picked your side. Now _enjoy,_ " and Damon's eyes growing wide and terrified.

"Damon!" she screams, watching as the muscles of his entire body, overcharged with inhuman tension, shiver at the sound of her voice, like she pinched the cord of a Stradivarius. The dead weight slips off his fingers when he turns to look at her, unblinking and slightly dazed.

"He stabbed you," voice hoarse like he's been wandering in the desert for centuries, calling for a mercy heaven would not grant him.

"And you killed him," she says, though the word doesn't do justice to what truly happened to the poor bastard. She should be more outraged by this, but it does seem like justice, in a way "I think it's safe to say you're even—"

"He stabbed you," Damon insists, licking his dry lips, having no reaction to the taste of grey matter he collected on his tongue as his eyes scan her body with incredulity.

"And now he looks like a packet of crackers run over by a freaking truck!" she protests, looking at the human pulp at his feet. She'll give him hell about this, but not now, because it breaks her heart the way he looks at her.

Damon looks at her, desperate and fazed and speechless, and there's something tugging at her heart, for he looks so _lost_. She had once thought he'd be relieved to see her die, but he looks like something inside broke the moment he thought he could lose her.

"Are you…" he takes a step in her direction, the first movement an awkward jerk, making him look like a toy with dying batteries.

"Fine," she finishes, "Yes, I'm fine." She repeats as the words seem to slowly sink inside his brain. "You're not getting rid of me just yet," and in a rush he goes to her.

Bonnie can see his long step, his face twisted with a blind joy, can feel the pull of his arms like gravity. Her body gets pressed against his own with the speed of a rock thrown off the pinnacle of the One World Trade Center. His arms hold her like his last piece of sanity and it's okay, until she can hear the tearing of fabric and skin, until she can feel the sensation of _stuck_ when he impales himself on the long stake that's poking outside her chest, in the middle of her ribcage, piecing her from the back.

Her eyes grow wide, the smell of him almost broken down into individual molecules.

"Bon," he says, humid mouth moving against her temple, as he inhales relief, molding her chest to the shape of his breathing " _You came back._ "

The feeling of his hard body wrapped around her petite, steely frame is overwhelming. It makes her breathless and anguished and she pushes him away, his flesh hardly sliding against the uneven surface of the stake as he stumbles back against her new strength.

She looks down morbidly fascinated by the blood dripping from it, tears it away from her body with a harsh yank that seem to pull at an organ as it comes out.

"Elena," she cries, panicking about her friend's fate, "What about Elena?"

#

"Here," Caroline says, pushing a cup of warm blood into her hands, "This will make you feel better." But Bonnie throws it on the ground, smashing the cup into hundreds of pieces.

"I don't want it!" she screams, pulling up her knees and pressing herself against the cushion of the sofa in the Salvatore living room.

"I know it seems gross right now," Caroline tries to soothe her, cupping the back of her head with one hand, "But the taste kinda grows on you, you know. Like French _macaroons,_ it's overwhelming in the beginning but you learn to appreciate them. And they make you feel fancy."

The comparison is ridiculous, and even more so the fact that her diet will have to be liquid from now on, if she wants to survive at all, but her mind can't dwell on that right now because Elena is probably dead, now, in a totally different way than she is, and once again because of her. All her life she's tried to be the best friend possible, the good sister, sheltering her from harm, and she managed to kill her _twice_ now. The idea causes bile to rise up her throat and she runs to the bathroom to throw up in the toilet – the fast, superhuman speed makes her so dizzy she loses it faster than she ever did.

When she's done, Bonnie leans against the washbasin, splashing her face with fresh water and looking at her face in the mirror with a chilling terror. This is the face of the girl that made her friend die. And her breath grows erratic as she tries to face the truth. And the turmoil only make her emotions grow out of hand, teeth reacting to that with an awkward, almost pleasurable itch.

Two fingers press against her mouth and push the upper lip to peek slowly at one canine, but before she can study the monstrous transformation she hears the front door opening, Caroline's happy scream, Damon's voice as he fakes annoyance, and someone laughing of happiness.

Bonnie's hand wraps around the knob of the door, waiting for a couple of moments before gaining the courage to look for herself and see lovely, human, living Elena, meeting her eyes and smiling at her as Caroline holds her for dear life.

"The psychopathic bastard was actually a _lying_ psychopathic bastard," Damon announces, with a grin, "Who knew."

#

He looks at his empty hand, his long fingers closing in a fist around nothing. The rich, dense fluid is spreading on the floor next to his feet, over the chips of glass after Bonnie slapped his offering from his hand.

"We already covered this," he explains, through his teeth, trying to sound reasonable and calm when she's making it impossible for him. "It's either the cure, or you adapt to the liquid diet, Bon. There's really no other way to go here."

"The cure belongs to you," she says, like the sacrificial martyr she always was, sounding so _final_ he wants to break a bone just so she'll know how it feels so be at someone else's mercy.

"Which leaves us with option two," he flippantly rebuts, tempted to tear out his hair because he knows her answer to that. It's under his feet in splinters of glass and rivulets of perfectly edible A-negative.

They've been going in circles about this for what it seems like an _eternity_. An eternity they don't have, _yet_ , because she won't give in and he won't give up and they are at a freaking impasse.

"I don't want that," she replies between her teeth, not even bothering to look him in the eyes.

She's throwing in the towel and she doesn't even have the decency to look at him.

"I've been a vampire for one hundred and fifty years. I'm quite good at it." He shrugs like it doesn't matter. Humanity always had a strange allure, the fragility of it all made it look all the more precious—the idea of changing and getting older in style held a bizarre fascination—but that's something he can easily give up for her. "Who gives a shit about being human?"

" _You_ do," she retorts, giving him a dirty look. There's something magnetic about it. He thinks she's going to cause a whole lot of trouble.

"I give a shit about you," he admits, words easily rolling off his tongue like he could beg right now. If it would have any effect on her he'd be on his knees right about now, looking up at her like the only goddess that can answer his prayers.

"You don't get it!" she protests, as her fingers tighten about the curtains she can't pull back and she bends her head to avoid looking at the stubborn presence of Damon.

"No, _you_ don't get it!" he yells, frustrated by her attitude, "So let me explain how this works. In the wise words of the _Vampire for Dummies_ manual — on which I suggest you brush up — you drink blood, you complete the transition, we all live happily _ever-ever_ after."

"I don't wanna live forever," she hisses between her teeth, which she can suddenly feel grow longer. He stares at her mouth enthralled, snapping out of it almost immediately.

"Not with a Taylor Swift's song stuck in your brain, no," he jokes with her words, ignoring her wish, "But look at the bright side—"

"What bright side? Huh?" she presses, angrily, "I'm a witch!"

" _Was_ —" he corrects her, grimacing when he realizes he's not making the situation any better.

"I am supposed to be one with my power, with nature. It _spoke_ to me before," she tries to explain the stark difference, the emptiness she feels, now that her body is so strong and so _hollow._ "I could feel the pull, like I was north and the world would always turn towards me," she says, staring up into his eyes, desperate to convince him, to _compel_ him. She shakes her head as she turns to walk to a vase of fresh white roses, fingers wrapping tightly around the stalk, thorns piercing the skin that stubbornly heals without her permission.

Bonnie pulls one hand away to see the unmarred skin, a drop of blood falling against the pale flower, staining it with red as she says in a whisper, "Now it's _rejecting_ me… like I am less than human," and she is.

"We just got Elena back," Damon yells, grabbing her arm and turning her forcefully towards him. "We're not losing you, now."

"It was always the plan!" she yells back.

"Whose plan? Not _mine_!" He's irked by her stubbornness. It's been days and she hasn't touched a drop of blood. And if the last choice she leaves him with is to slaughter a man in front of her and lure her in with the smell of a tasty snack, he'll do just that, and then she can spend the next century or two accusing him of being the cause of her disgrace. He doesn't give a single shit about it, as long as she stays.

"I was supposed to grow old and die, and you'd get Elena back," she says, "I'm just skipping the _grow old_ part."

"You're not getting out of this so easily," he decides, hand wrapping around the neck of her blouse, pulling her towards him to openly threaten her.

Bonnie doesn't seem impressed. In fact, her fierce eyes stare up at him as she asks, "And who's going to stop me?" and uses one hand pressed flat on his hard chest to push him back, the heels of her ankle boots clicking on the parquet as she forces his back to the wall covered in red tapestry, and then takes a step back to control her reaction.

"Take a wild guess, baby."

Bonnie is not strong enough for someone as old as he is, and not in the starved condition she's wallowing in, but he wants to fuel her rage, make her see _red._ She's not used to living with the volatile muddle of emotions boiling under the surface of her skin and he can use this to his advantage.

"I'm not your baby," she grimaces, turning her back to him and walking to the sofa, pulling back her hair from her face.

"You have my blood in you, so, technically — just for the sake of being annoyingly accurate, honey — you _are."_ There's a glint in his eyes when she looks over her shoulder like she would have made his vessel explode less than one week ago.

"I won't drink blood," she states coldly.

"We'll see about that," and yet, neither Caroline nor Elena could find the words to convince her. He's left alone with the tearing need to keep her and all she does is laugh in his face.

"No one can convince me to do this, Damon," she says, making his rage explode.

"Damn it, Bonnie!" he cries out, kicking the footrest in front of the armchair so hard it crashes on the wall at her back. His reaction doesn't scare her, even now. He could have easily hit her and yet the footrest hadn't even touched her. "You're killing yourself over a fucking flower!" he yells. "What if it rejects you? What if the rest of the whole damn world rejects you?" he asks, turning to take the vase from the table and throw it on the opposite wall. "Who _fucking_ cares!"

"Of course, you don't! Because you only care about what you want!" she accuses him, crossing her arms under her breasts like she's shielding her heart in the process.

"Me?" he asks, exasperated and bitterly amused, "I'm the one pleading and begging here, while you behave like a cold-hearted bitch and try to leave me behind!" He advances like an animal that's chosen its prey. "So, tell me again who's rejecting who," he says, walking into her until she's pressed with her back against a mirror hung to the wall. "You're just scared of what awaits you, Bon," he hisses, looking down at her with derision. "The big bad witch is scared to live and find herself all alone so she'd rather hand in her dinner pail," he taunts her.

"That's not what I'm doing," she hisses, baring her teeth.

"I can feel you shaking in your sexy boots, Bon-Bon. Are you wetting your panties? You could at least find a half-decent excuse other than the loss of your green thumb," he mocks her. "You didn't even bother _watering_ the plants if memory serves me well."

"What would you know about me?" she asks, fingers itching to break him. "You don't know a fucking thing about me!"

"I know _every_ -fucking-thing," he spells with a satisfied grin, "From the brand of cereal you eat at breakfast to what turns you into a pathetic little girl. And I know you're scared—"

"Shut up, Damon," she threatens.

"You're scared you'll have an eternity only to spend it sad and alone, because in the end you are always the wallflower and magic was the only thing that made you feel slightly less pathetic—"

"I said 'shut up'" she repeats, now boiling with rage and humiliation.

"Or what, Bon?" he presses her, palms open against the surface of the mirror behind her, body pressed against her as he forces to hear every word vibrating against her body, hitting her face with every raged breath. "You're not fooling anyone. You bark but you don't bite," he says, smiling with his elongated canines out.

"We'll see about that." She grins obscurely up at him before sinking her teeth into his carotid. He groans, almost victorious as he raises his eyes only to meet them in the mirror behind her back, before the reality of it all hits him like a brick to the head. Anger and starvation make her suck with no finesse, and the sensation goes straight to his cock, which twitches inside the confines of his black jeans. Her arms slide under his armpits and her fingers grip his shoulder like an animal that's ensnared its prey, keeping him in her clutches though he has no intention to escape.

He should, and yet it feels so good – _fuck,_ does this count as rape all the same if she's the one actively doing it? He wanted to fuel her rage until he could wave a human thing under her nose and have her snap, he hadn't thought about this, hadn't thought about having his best friend's mouth stimulating a vein that went strength to his dick. He can feel the ghost of her lips and tongue around his cock, the humidity of her mouth engulfing him in hard pleasure. "God, Bon," he groans. The sensation is making him see dark spots, head falling forward until his nose is buried against her hair. "You don't und… _fuck_ " he moans, hands sliding down the mirror and around her waist, maybe to pull her away, maybe to pull her closer .

"Slow down," he says breathlessly as she keeps sucking him off, mercilessly. He cups the back of her head with one large hand, tries to lull his reason because his blood will make her come alive. And her mouth will make him come, period. " _Please_ ," he grunts, torn between the impending orgasm and his need to do right by her. His body rocks against hers, he can't control it, and if she had not felt it before, in the steely way they were challenging each other, she can feel it now, unmistakably pulsating against her stomach, shamelessly hard for her.

"God," he moans again against her temple as she stills her movement and pulls back, teeth tearing a little at the skin, feeling a little like a last rub to his cock.

"What happened?" she asks, looking up at him wide-eyed and red-cheeked, like she's just been well fucked.

He swallows the knot in his throat, tries to ignore the fierce need to come – he was so close, he can feel the precum dripping from him – to look at her with the most cautious look he can muster. "Well," he says, clearing his throat, "Where do I start?" His eyes repeatedly drop to her swollen lips. "Did they ever explain you how babies are made?"

#

 **Note:** Last week I was pretty bored and entered my instagram account, stumbling upon a short edit made by __witchology_ ( _vlvetmornings_ over tumblr) which made me instantly itch to write about Vampire!Bonnie and here we are. I don't even know how this story goes on after this first chapter, but I'm going to sort it out, I hope. Leave me your reviews, you can never know what can spark up ispiration. The title of the story is in italian (I know you know, I'm not surprising anyone) and it means Stolen Breath.


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